


When in Kirkwall...

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 07:55:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because she can dispatch an entire Lowtown gang with a blast of Templar might doesn’t mean she’s any better than Carver was at courting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When in Kirkwall...

Her mother always said to meet people where they met you — a platitude somewhere along the “when in Ferelden…” vein. It was a sure-fire way to make a friend instead of an enemy, she said.  
Except, River Hawke always managed to bungle that sort of thing up, which is why it made no sense that she should be keeping company with such a motley crew — a smooth-talking dwarf who not only chuckled at her jokes but casually taught her better ones, a buxom pirate who guy-watched and girl-watched with equal enthusiasm, and a stuffy but sensitive guardswoman whose only fear was the stove, to name three of them.

So far so good, River thought to herself, believing that perhaps she was finally exhibiting some of the old Hawke charm... and then she met the Chantry prince.

 _Meet people where they meet you,_ Leandra Hawke instructed, and so River made her bumbling attempt.

“Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked, and do not falter.”  
Sebastian is down on one knee, his head bowed, his hand resting on his armour right above where his heart would be. River clears her throat and glances down quickly at her palm, where a slip of paper with scribbled words rests.

“Ah, blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the… the juice— er, the just! Yes.” She winces as soon as she realises she’s blown her cover, peering up at Sebastian from under her lashes when his head lifts and turns.

“Sorry! I… um.” She colours vividly and stuffs her hand into her pocket, hiding the slip of paper away. She should have let the ink dry first…

“Champions of the juice.” Sebastian repeats this damning phrase quietly, his lips twitching as if he is trying not to smile.

“I… guess I screwed that all up, huh. I should go.” The misery of embarrassment creeps into her voice as she pushes herself to her feet, dusting her knees off briskly and turning to depart — the Hightown air of questionable quality seems plenty desirable, suddenly.

“Wait.” At his hand on her elbow, she freezes in place, turning a little too fast to face him again. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to embarrass you. It was a simple mistake. I’m sure the Maker forgives it.”

“ _Juice,_ Sebastian,” she reminds him, loudly. A chanter’s head turns, and she colours again before continuing, a little quieter. “I’m no Maker’s girl. I don’t think I’ve even seen the inside of the Lothering Chantry. I was just… I don’t know. I thought maybe if I… _ugh_.” Babbling. Another charming habit of hers, right up there with chewing on the ends of her braids when they’re not coiled behind her head and talking with her mouth full.

Sebastian is smiling, and she frowns deeply at the thought of being mocked.

“You could come to Him on your death bed, delirious with fever, hardly knowing what you are saying, and He would still accept you. If your heart is true—”

“That’s the thing, Choir Boy,” she interrupts drily, borrowing Varric’s nickname. “You’ve got your eyes on heaven, and I’ve got mine on… um. You.” Isabela would have said “your backside”, or something even more obvious than that, but River is a long way from being that silver-tongued. Maybe she could trade a coin for a lesson.

Sebastian is regarding her with a faint look of bemused befuddlement, one eyebrow raised and his lips slightly parted. River sighs gustily and rubs the back of her neck, feeling the colour creep up into her face for the third time in so many minutes. “Yeah, I gotta go. Think I’ll go see Varric. I need a drink. A dozen drinks. All the drinks.”  
This time, she manages to escape before he can recover and convince her to stay and embarrass herself further.

——

“So how’d it go with Choir Boy?” Varric asks after patting the seat next to him and signalling Norah for two fresh pints. River groans, slapping her palm to her forehead.

“Why’d you have to ask _before_ I got my drink…”

“That bad, huh.” The dwarf chuckles and scrubs his knuckles over his stubble, thoughtfully. “You know, you might want to ask ‘Bela for advice.”

River splutters. “Are you insane?”

“According to at least a dozen women, yes. Beside the point, though.”

“She’ll tell me to… to… I don’t know, strip starkers and pose like an Andrastian statue in his chambers, or something!”

“If you do that,” Varric comments, raising his pint and tapping it against hers, “I might get a little jealous.”

“Oh, Varric, I don’t know. Why am I even bothering. I’m just a smelly Fereldan who—”

“Isn’t so smelly at all?” River freezes with her flagon in midair, eyes widening. Varric simply grins and drinks deeply as Sebastian Vael takes a seat across from them, gingerly wiping at a questionable stain that’s likely been embedded in the wood since before any of them were born.

“Why— what— what are you doing here!” River hisses, and Sebastian shrugs, a little smile playing on his lips.

“If you can pretend to pray just to pass the time with me, I can pretend to drink just to do the same,” he responds. “Ah, Varric… they wouldn’t serve juice here by any chance…?”


End file.
